


as the wind behaves

by Caecelia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: snape_potter, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caecelia/pseuds/Caecelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry thinks he knows what he wants. Snape is unwilling to oblige him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as the wind behaves

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [Fix-It-Fest](http://snape-potter.livejournal.com/tag/fix%20it%20fest%3A%20masterlist) on [snape_potter](http://snape-potter.livejournal.com/). Beta read by [accioslash](http://accioslash.dreamwidth.org/profile) and [delphi](http://delphi.dreamwidth.org/profile) \-- I learned so much from both of you. ♥

**as the wind behaves**

  
_Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves  
In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer -  
Not that final meeting_   


{from T.S. Eliot's _The Hollow Men_ }

 

The path leading from the Shrieking Shack into the Forbidden Forest is unmarked. Once he leaves the vandalised railway tracks (nearly collapsing over twisted rails and splintered, blackened timber sleepers) he has to hack one out himself. Through the overgrowth he stumbles, through weeds high and thick enough to resist every forward step, spiteful weeds that foist sharp and sticky pods onto his robes and leave vengeful scratches on his hands as he slashes them, as he careens forward and clumsily crushes them down. _Sectumsempra_ over and over, again and again. Sweets wrappers in Honeydukes colours flutter betwixt the yellow stalks, bright and glittering reminders of youthful delusions and failed responsibilities — _Sectumsempra_. The severed stalks and the freed wrappers shoot in every direction, some reprovingly swatting him in the face, but he ignores them in favour of scissoring himself a path. To the forest –

To the boy — the boy —

(Severus clutches his ribs, feeling his own erratic heartbeat, trying to squeeze the constricting pain out of his chest. He gags on air that reeks of blubbery, congealed globs of blood and venom and the noisome sorcery that is surely responsible for his continued existence on this miserable plane.)

He thinks he can already feel the chill of forest magic, the damp, benighted earth pervaded with worms, minerals, ancient rowans, oaks and pines — He thinks he can smell spoiled berries, musky droppings, the ineluctable stench of general rot — His pace quickens as the shadows lengthen, as the trees draw him into their cold embrace —

Finally — an end to those bloody weeds —

He finds himself in a clearing, gasping. Black spots emerging before his eyes and his knees giving in — a tree; he braces himself against it. A fallen trunk, slathered with stained, decomposed leaves. When he lifts away his hands, it is to find them covered in a strangely glutinous sludge, the wounds on them stinging.

Severus inhales sharply, applying grimy forefinger and thumb to his eyes as though he could just press the dizziness away. He pushes his eyes almost through to his skull, fighting against the numbness fishing its way up his spine. His legs seem to have lost their capacity for feeling . . . Perhaps he should rest. But only for a moment . . . He merely . . . needs a moment to . . . breathe. He _will_ find . . . the boy. The boy who left him . . . to rot . . . who knows how much he understood . . . whether he is prepared for his task . . .

Snape is sliding down to his knees, black silence slithering past his ears and eyes and nose . . . He shakes his head against the onslaught, a slow, painful pull of tendons and swivel of bone against bone; he attempts to think. There are not many pleasant memories left to him, but . . . he still knows where to dredge them up. Perverse though they may be, perhaps they will save a life. Lives . . .

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," he says, nearly choking when the silver doe writhes out of his wand. He sees her slender haunches rippling in the gloom before she bounds away. There is no need for him to give her a message, he thinks dizzily, resting his head on the blighted soft bark of the tree. She is the essence of what must be said. She is –

He closes his eyes and –

– – –

"I knew it," he whispers.

The doe nods gravely, as though imparting a great secret, before vanishing into a point of light that pulls at his heart as it, too, ebbs and dims.

"Oh," says Hermione in the relative darkness, her voice small.

From where Ron has been lagging behind comes the answering snap of a twig.

Harry exhales. Inhales too quickly, because he is confused. Then he lifts up his illuminated wand and squints down at what it reveals: the rail-thin figure of a man splayed over a wasted tree, his lower body submerged in a mud puddle and his face frighteningly pale beneath layers of grime, beneath snarled, greasy strands of long black hair that run in serpentine trails down his neck, where – Harry feels his hand beginning to shake – it suddenly becomes shiny and wet and – Harry's wand is slipping down to point –

– at his feet.

He stares at his trainers for a moment, trying to ease his breath, and looks up to see Hermione braving a step forward. The steep forest ground squelches beneath her feet and seems generally untrustworthy; she keeps glancing down and holding onto rocks in order to maintain her balance. Harry finds himself following the unsteady gaze of her Lumos spell, despite the inevitability with which it slowly traces over that hair and down to the grisly wound on Snape's – oh God. Harry looks away again, his chest so tight with guilt and horror, and – he can't _breathe_ , he has to run a hand through his hair and take in several biting, cold shots of air.

Hermione has come to a halt in front of Snape. She glances back at Harry, inclining her head for him to come closer. As though this were something he should see. Harry knows that she's right, even as the horror courses through him, so he grinds his teeth and strides forward, navigating by instinct through a maze of roots and around the hulk of the fallen tree until he can squat down next to Snape. For a moment he simply huddles there, overwhelmed. It occurs to him that he should be checking for a pulse, but then he imagines what might happen were Snape to awaken and see _Harry_ touching him . . .

Ron clears his throat. "Be careful, Harry. We don't know it's really him, after all. He could be a vampire or some kind of dodgy forest spirit or an Inferius, for all we know."

"He's not an Inferius, Ron." The very idea irritates Harry more than he can say – it reminds him of Defence lessons that had been written with Horcruxes in mind – makes a bitter fluid seep up from his stomach into his throat, because the evidence was all _there_ , because he should have _known_ –

Because he'd left Snape to _die_ , and if he _had_ been turned into an Inferius, it would have partly been Harry's own fault –

And suddenly Harry couldn't care less what Snape might think or what Ron might say or what _conclusions_ Hermione might draw. He reaches out and pokes Snape in the shoulder. The fabric there seems almost to disintegrate beneath his touch; he thinks he can feel bone beneath the decomposing threads. "Sir? Can you hear me, sir?"

Snape, stiff and seemingly lifeless, manages to set Harry's sense of panic aflame. Harry is shaking his entire shoulder now and even warring with the idea of whether or not to put his hand on Snape's chest –

"He's definitely alive," announces Hermione with a (depressingly) confident flick of her wand, and all of a sudden Harry is self-conscious again and recoiling, resting back on his heels. Several sparkling streams – coloured silver and blue and red – are swirling around Snape's head and heart and lungs and back to her wand again. Another flick of her wand ends the diagnostic spell, and she glances at Harry, expression tense. "We need to get him back to the castle. Quickly."

"But –" Ron comes up from behind her, his face still wan from weeping most of the day and screwed up in puzzlement. "This doesn't make any sense. We saw him _die_ , for Merlin's sake."

"Appearances can be deceiving," says Hermione briskly, transfiguring a twig into a floating stretcher.

"I don't get it either," Harry admits, running a hand through his hair and rising to his feet. He looks down at Snape – so unearthly and shrunken in this light and from this angle – and remembers a little boy stretched out in the shade of a tree, his face reflecting the brightness of a red-headed girl and _consumed_ with happiness and hope. Harry could use a bit of that hope, now that he no longer knows what to make of his life. " _Mobilicorpus_ ," he says dully, levitating Snape onto the stretcher.

Without the doe to guide them, it is easy to feel crushed by the forest's sinister quiet. They wander for what seems like hours through the trees and thorns, jumpily wary of rogue Death Eaters and giants and werewolves . . . what a _relief_ to finally see the castle, decimated though it is, defiantly luminescent against the starless sky . . .

"Let's just hope that Kingsley believed your story, Harry," Ron says. Harry grimaces, suddenly feeling as though he were a pig and Ron's words a carving knife. "Otherwise there'll be Aurors swarming the place, looking for Snape. They'll want him as a scapegoat, you know."

"Well, they can't have him," snaps Harry. Hermione glances at him sharply. Ron, for his part, looks away.

But then they never saw the memories. Harry glances down at the figure floating beside him on the stretcher and reaches out to (briefly) squeeze its hand. Withered to the bone and as icy as the depths of the Black Lake, it leaves a gritty slime on his palm, but Harry doesn't mind. It reminds him that Snape is alive, and it reminds him of his mum, always so near and so far – of Narcissa, whispering in his ear, saving his life as he played dead in the mud. He was reborn in the forest, motherless, anchorless as the fallen leaves . . .

He squeezes Snape's hand again and looks up at the lights of the castle. "Let's go," he says.

– – –

He wants to check up on Snape, is itching to see him, in fact, but his friends are intent on giving him advice.

"Make sure to talk a lot and hold his hand," says Hermione, swatting at a loose strand of fuzzy hair that keeps bouncing in her face. "That's what I did, and it was very helpful."

"Hermione, this is the greasy git we're talking about, not your favourite uncle." Ron shudders. "Harry can't hold his hand! Just say a few words in case he can hear you and go, mate," he adds.

"Physical contact is an essential aid to recovery," says Hermione loftily, pushing the irritating strand behind her ear. "Do try to appreciate how terribly isolating it is to be stuck in a coma, Ronald. Also, I hardly think that holding Professor Snape's hand for a few minutes amounts to such a great chore, considering all his years of sacrifice for Harry. Wouldn't you agree, Harry?"

Harry clenches, then unclenches his hand. "Yeah," he says. "Guys, thanks for the advice, but –"

"See," says Ron smugly, "Harry doesn't like your idea either."

Hermione turns on Ron, eyes narrowed. " _Must_ you always be so deliberately unhelpful –"

"Guys!" Harry is nearly shouting. "I'll see you later, OK?"

Hermione gives him an understanding, if long-suffering look, while Ron grimaces at him in well-meant commiseration. Then they turn back to each other and continue their argument.

Harry shakes his head. He sets out for the infirmary at a brisk pace that soon becomes a full-out run.

Madam Pomfrey's stern expression may waver upon his arrival, but otherwise she does not appear particularly surprised to see him. She presses today's _Daily Prophet_ into his hand. "You may read to him if you like," she says, leading him to the last bed in the hospital wing. Harry feels his skin prickle as they pass, first, through an invisible layer of wards, then through a set of eerily floating white hangings.

The air is overly warm and stagnant, barely stirred by the listless summer breeze. Harry grinds his teeth. The combined smell of sweetish powder and acrid cleaning spells is unpleasantly cloying. He feels a headache coming.

He gazes down at Snape, almost fully encased in tightly drawn, heavily starched sheets. His black hair has been cleaned of dead things and dried blood, and thick, limp strands of it lie draped over his shoulders. There is a vile-smelling ochre-brown poultice encircling his neck. His face has been washed and shaved, but reminds Harry of the mummified Cornish hen his Muggle teacher had once brought to class for a lesson about Ancient Egypt. Snape's face has the same sallow colour, the same dried-out, brittle, disquieting qualities as the hen, Harry thinks.

He glances at Madam Pomfrey, who has come round to adjust the poultice. Fluid the colour and consistency of iodine begins to seep out and soak into the collar of Snape's nightshirt. Harry looks away, feeling his stomach crawl.

"That should do it," says Madam Pomfrey after a moment. Harry starts, feeling caught.

He unfolds the newspaper with a snap. "Should I read to him?"

"I think he would appreciate that, yes."

Harry gulps in a breath before moving around the bed to sit in a chair positioned at Snape's side. He looks down at the newspaper without seeing the headlines, then up at Madam Pomfrey.

She nods encouragingly, skirts rustling as she turns away from him. Harry can hear the scratch of linen parting as she passes through the hangings.

Slightly rattled by the concept of being left alone with Snape, even a Snape suspended in a magical coma, Harry spends several dead seconds staring at a grainy, oversized photograph of himself. BOY-WHO-LIVED DEFEATS HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED reads the caption. He flips to the second and third page and scoffs at an article titled HARRY POTTER'S UNSUNG ACTS OF HEROISM, only to be stopped short by HARRY POTTER – MOST DANGEROUS WIZARD ALIVE? Scowling, Harry shakes the paper open to the following pages – then shakes it again, flipping past photographs of Hermione and Luna and Ron and Neville, interviews with McGonagall and Flitwick and Slughorn and – here he pauses to frown – Lucius Malfoy. There follows a cramped, nearly black page containing the names and photographs of the dead – an even more cramped and inky page with the mug shots of Death Eaters and other suspected criminals still on the run. Frustrated, Harry turns to another page. He finds himself staring at an unflattering photograph of Snape, his hair scruffy and flying all over the place, his uneven teeth bared threateningly at the camera –

Panic grips at Harry and he ends up flinging the paper to the ground. "Rubbish," he says. "All of it."

He looks up from the discarded paper, but Snape remains as lifeless as he had been when Harry had found him sprawled, limbs peculiarly askew, over a dead tree. "I won't let them get you," he vows.

Silence.

"I won't," he says, more loudly.

Snape doesn't even twitch. Curious, Harry inches the chair closer to the bed. "Thanks for everything," he says experimentally, peering at Snape's bandaged throat, then his slim, just-parted lips. He tries to imagine Snape's reaction. Probably he'd be insulted. "I know you didn't do it for me. I . . ." He trails off suddenly. "This is stupid. You probably can't even hear me."

For a long, irritated moment, Harry simply gazes down at Snape's closed eyes. The lashes are surprisingly straight and long, like a child's. Harry shifts in the chair, brows furrowing together. "I wish you could scowl or something. At least then I would know you were listening."

He looks up at the ceiling, as though seeking patience or advice, then back down at Snape's jagged profile. Even more curious now, he rises halfway to his feet and extends a finger to lightly touch the tip of Snape's strongly curved nose. It's colder than he expected. Harry cocks his head, suddenly thoughtful. "It's weird that no one's found a way to communicate with coma patients yet. You'd think there'd be a potion or something." For a moment, he thinks of Snape prowling through a hushed, smoky classroom. Then he thinks of Slughorn, a pale walrus in a waistcoat, and remembers being constantly compared to his mother.

He thinks of the Half-Blood Prince, and moves his finger down to trace the ragged curve of one emaciated cheek. "I bet you could invent a potion like that," he says, not bothering to keep the admiration out of his voice. "Too bad you haven't already. It would be really useful right now."

Harry hesitates then, unable to think of anything else to say. Slowly, he sits back in the chair.

Perhaps he should just head back to his friends. This was a stupid idea, coming to visit Snape. Seeing him unconscious just makes Harry feel guilty and inadequate. And trying to talk to him in this state is a bloody pain.

Harry gets to his feet, and in doing so first notices Snape's right hand, laid out flat against the covers. He stops moving and stares. Harry has seen these hands many times before, covered in yellow stains, nicked with bruises, white with pressure from gripping a wand, but never has he seen them this clean. Even the nails, which had been packed with earth when Harry last saw them, last gripped them, have been cut back and washed. Without the grime Snape's fingers seem exquisitely slender. They are also somewhat crooked, as if they had been broken more than once.

He sits back down and –

When Madam Pomfrey returns some time later, Harry is dozing in the chair with newspaper pages drifting aimlessly over the floor and Snape's stiff hand held loosely in his own. Her arrival startles him into letting go.

She says nothing, merely running diagnostic spells over Snape. Cautiously, Harry stretches, blinking at her through unfocused eyes.

Eventually her eyes dart towards him, crinkled in a smile. "Well done, Mr Potter," she says.

Harry blinks again, then smiles back, feeling strangely warm.

– – –

(Harry liked to watch the memories at night, when the headmistress's office was murky and there was nothing but sense-memory and the feeble glow of his wand to guide him. Albus Dumbledore seemed both more and less present when his portrait was asleep. Harry sometimes thought he could see flashes of a silver beard and garish robes in the filmy glass doors of lacquered shelves, but a closer look revealed nothing but undusted curios and mouldy grimoires and the occasional still-wrapped lemon drop. He got a thrill out of it all the same.

Harry hated and avoided the memories with Dumbledore in them, but he came to know the ones of Snape's childhood so well they began to yield to him. One day, he found himself able to interact with the scenery. He was able to climb the tree sheltering Severus and Lily and watch the musical bob of their heads. He was able to sit between them amidst the leaves and marvel at the looks on their faces.

Once, he tried to touch them. The contact was fleeting – so brief that Harry would have thought it imagined, had his fingers not came away warm.

Harry stopped watching the memories soon after that. Somehow, it became clear to him that Snape . . . Snape _was_ those memories. Giving them back – Snape still suspended in a coma, unable to comment as Harry gripped his hand and Madam Pomfrey guided silver strands to his temple – made Harry feel blistered with elation.)

– – –

He nearly runs into the infirmary when Madam Pomfrey sends him an owl with the news, only to come skidding to a halt at the sound of raised voices.

"– what do you mean, _dead_?"

"Potter defeated him, Severus . . . For Merlin's sake, don't give me that look – were you expecting someone else to do the honours?"

There is a faint creaking sound as of hospital bed-hinges being squelched beneath a particularly restless patient. Snape, Harry thinks with a surge of warmth, and he can feel his heart beating in his ears even as he hears a scoff and a softly voiced, "Hardly. But you must admit it is still a surprise to hear such words, after all these years . . ."

The headmistress huffs, partly out of offence, partly understanding. Harry wonders whether she has told Snape of his demotion by the Hogwarts Board. Somehow, although Harry doubts Snape wanted to be headmaster in the first place, he thinks the news will come as a blow.

"So . . . Potter . . . he is dead as well."

"Whatever gives you that idea? The boy has been here day and night; he was the one who found you, after all. Doubtless he'll be sorely disappointed to have missed your grand awakening . . . I dare say, Severus, you look as though the boy really _had_ died! What in Merlin's name is wrong? I . . . this was too much information at once, of course you're overwhelmed. Here, lie back a little."

"Potter is _alive_?"

The white hangings separating Snape from the rest of the hospital wing seem to resonate with astonishment. Harry shifts his weight between his feet. From the sound of it, Snape doesn't remember all those times Harry read to him ~~or held his hand~~. With all probability, the mere sight of Harry alive would instantly send him back into a near-death state . . .

"Of course he's alive, how else would he have slain Voldemort?" McGonagall snorts, and Harry thinks he can hear the crinkling of a pillow being soundly fluffed and stuffed beneath Snape's head. "Where you _do_ get your ideas, Severus Snape, I sometimes wonder. Now, stop working yourself up over nothing and settle back – there's a good lad. I'll send Poppy over to check on you in a moment."

There is the clicking of flat heels against stone, the rustling of rough cloth being pushed aside, and then the headmistress emerges from Snape's makeshift room. Her eyebrows rise at the sight of Harry – quickly, she snaps the hangings together and gestures at him to follow her to the other end of the nearly empty wing –

"How much of that did you hear?" she asks in a low voice, lips pursed.

"Just the bit towards the end." Harry grimaces. "I thought coma patients were supposed be aware of their surroundings . . ."

"Professor Snape is momentarily disoriented; hardly surprising, given his condition." McGonagall's eyes roam over Harry's face, stern and piercing. "Am I correct in assuming that you know why he thought you should be dead, Potter?"

Harry glances back at the hangings separating Snape from the world, feeling uncharitable all of a sudden. This is not something he wants to explain, especially not to the headmistress. "Dumbledore," he bites out.

"Ah," says McGonagall, and she seems to have figured out a great deal of what Harry has left out on her own, for her green eyes are gleaming. "Very well then, Potter. I would suggest you give Professor Snape some time to grow used to the idea of your continued existence before confirming it in the flesh. I'm sure he'll get over the shock soon enough, but you know how he can be when treading unfamiliar ground."

Harry jerks out another nod.

(He doesn't want to wait, however. Harry wants to see Snape, wants to sort out the things between them _now_ before the new foundations of all he's been working to build up this past month are shaken down by old habit and old grudges. Besides, Snape needs to know that Harry followed the instructions left in his memories. Voldemort is really dead.)

"I'm glad we have an understanding," she says, eyes as reflective and unreadable as a cat's, it seems, before turning her back on him and heading towards Madam Pomfrey.

– – –

Harry waits from behind a pillar until McGonagall leaves – about five minutes – before returning to the hospital wing. He doesn't like disobeying her, but he can't let Snape think he's avoiding him, especially not after McGonagall herself went out and told him how Harry'd spent so much time at his bedside. And there are things Snape has to know, things he will never rest not knowing –

And this weight on Harry's chest –

This unnameable weight on his chest that only Hermione and Luna and perhaps Ron seem to understand and that even they find perturbing –

His step is buoyant, as though everything were falling into place, and yet his body is a jittering mass of nerves. He keeps clenching and unclenching his hands. There was a point where he'd contemplated taking off his glasses and using a spell to correct his vision just so Snape would see less of his dad in him, but then he'd decided that Snape can't be manipulated that way. Snape has only ever seen in Harry what he expects to see. Harry used to be the same in reverse, only that Snape's memories have made him warier of his own judgements. And so the glasses remain.

Besides, glasses are part of who he is. He's not his father just because he's near-sighted. Nor is he his mum. In fact, over the past month, after having watched and then brooded over Snape's memories nearly non-stop, Harry has come to the conclusion that he can't particularly identify with either of his parents. He loves them, yes. Just the thought of his mum is enough to start a pressure building in his throat . . . but. But they never had to make decisions quite like _this_.

He hopes – no, he _needs_ Snape to understand him. His gut clenches merely at the thought, and his heartbeat grows wild.

Madam Pomfrey, thank God, is nowhere to be seen. Harry hastens towards Snape's enclave, pulling the hangings apart and securing himself behind them as quickly and noiselessly as he can. As an extra precaution (although he knows full well that only select people can enter and that privacy spells are up everywhere), he charms the hangings with the strongest silencing spell he knows.

And then he looks at Snape –

Who, tangled in sheets like a child playing fort, sweating copiously in the non-existent summer breeze, startles violently –

Harry barely has time to look before Snape enshrouds long, slender feet and the tattered hem of his single grey nightshirt beneath the bedcovers. He barely has time to look before Snape's wide-eyed expression of astonishment curdles like bad milk, his black hair whips around his head like a villain's cape, and his mouth twists into one of the ugliest scowls Harry has ever seen. "Potter!" he snarls, and it doesn't matter that he's clearly overheated and exhausted, or that Harry has been holding his hand every night for a month now – Harry is _instantly_ angry –

And Snape's eyes flash with malice, his somewhat wan scowl giving way to thorny bared teeth and unblunted, gleeful disdain. "Speechless, are we, Potter?" he sneers, loftily arranging himself in a more comfortable position against his pillow. "I cannot imagine why – after all, you did so kindly leave me to expire in one of the most painful and undignified ways known to men –"

"I thought you were dead!"

"Obviously," Snape drawls out in the way that inevitably signals malicious amusement about to had at Harry's expense, "yes, _clearly_ I must have been dead, otherwise we would not be having this . . . scintillating . . . conversation right now. How remiss of me, Potter, to have overlooked such a significant point of fact –"

"Look, I'm sorry I left you in the Shack – but how was I supposed to know you were alive?" Harry retorts. "Even Voldemort thought you were dead! Besides, as far as I could tell right then, you weren't just Dumbledore's murderer, you'd also betrayed my mum and dad to Voldemort –"

Snape hisses at the word _mum_ , only to assume an apoplectic mien at _Voldemort_ , but Harry refuses to be derailed. "Don't tell me you would have acted any differently in my shoes! Besides, you should be glad I didn't stop to help, 'cause that way you didn't have to break cover! I mean –"

Harry's jaw aches, the muscles cramping together painfully, but he doesn't care. He wants to yell his lungs out. This is not how he imagined their conversation panning out and yelling is how he smothers disappointment. And he has a few choice things to say to Snape, now that they're back to their old ways . . .

He opens his mouth, and his tongue glues itself to the roof.

Snape stares up at him, his eyes so bright and black the corneas seem to be made of thick, rippled glass. Harry stares back, unsure of what he is really seeing. Those aren't . . . tears, are they? Because tears, were they to come toppling out, would unsettle the imbalance between them in a way Harry can't even begin to contemplate. Suddenly Harry is quite ashamed, although he couldn't say why – it isn't as though Snape is actually crying. Snape probably hasn't cried since . . .

Harry feels his face beginning to warm. It doesn't help that Snape continues looking at him with perilously glittering eyes, his mouth twisted in an expression of such _loathing_ – loathing that could just as well be directed at himself as at Harry.

Finally, Snape closes his eyes as though to ward off an incoming headache. Harry's tongue slowly unglues itself enough to speak.

"Snape . . ." Harry shuffles between his feet, noting how Snape's eyes mercifully remain closed. "I'm glad – I'm glad you survived. I would have hated myself if you'd actually died, now that I know about all the things you did for me."

Snape opens his eyes again, and Harry is instantly aware that he should have tried a different strategy, for this time their dark gleam is not only unrepentantly sinister, but worse: openly, unquestionably hostile. "About that, Potter," says Snape nastily, "I would be grateful if you told me what sort of Dark Magic you used to resurrect me from the grave. Who knows what sort of . . . deleterious . . . effects it might have . . ."

"What Dark Magic?" snaps Harry. "Besides, I thought we'd just established that I didn't lift a finger to help you!"

A murderous tic appears in Snape's jaw, prompting Harry to amend, "Though I _would_ have, of course, had I known –"

"You are lying, Potter." Snape's tone was the iciest Harry had ever heard it. "Soon after you and your little friends left me to perish in a pool of my own blood, I _did_ die. And remained dead for several minutes, at least, before your foolish necromancy compelled me back to life." Harry can feel his jaw drop, and Snape must notice it too, for he snarls, "I know what I felt, boy, and it was plainly _your_ magic that was responsible –"

"Then you're imagining things!" Harry explodes, feeling vaguely sick at the thought of a necromancy spell. As though Inferi weren't bad enough . . . the thought of half-eaten corpses rising from the grave . . .

Snape looks as though he might throttle him. Stomach still crawling at the thought of the undead, Harry says loudly, "I'm sorry, but that's how it is. After you gave me your memories – you've got them all back, by the way, did you notice? – I didn't waste a second before going off to die myself. Believe it or not, I went out and did exactly what I was supposed to do. It wasn't until after Voldemort killed me – well, he actually killed his Horcrux, which is why I didn't really die –"

Snape stares at him with such a mixture of irritation and consternation that his face seems even uglier than usual, which in turn makes Harry think that he isn't explaining very well. "Your doe only found me after it was all over," he tries again. "I had no idea that you were alive until she showed up. Honest. And I _definitely_ don't know any necromancy spells. Though, now that I think of it, I'll bet – anything – Malfoy does. Maybe he cast the spell – or maybe it was his dad." Harry shudders. "Yeah, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure it must have been his dad –"

"You know very well that the Malfoys weren't in the slightest way involved," snaps Snape. He is no longer looking at Harry, sneering instead at the hangings around his bed. He looks absent, almost, or concentrated, as though trying to call up a memory . . .

Harry is fairly certain that Snape has gotten some aspect of his story wrong – if not the bits about necromancy, then definitely the part about Lucius Malfoy. After all, he'd been near the scene, hadn't he? Harry's head fills with disturbing images of Malfoy, murmuring incantations, bent over Snape's bled-out corpse . . .

Could Snape have died? Is he really alive?

Harry feels rather sick now, as though someone had punched a pronged fork through the lining of his gut. Swallowing, he tries to think of something, anything else. He finds his gaze wandering over Snape's vaguely sneering face, and breathing in a sigh of relief.

Snape is gaunt, too gaunt, and fine droplets of sweat have amassed above his lips and at the crown of his brow. The hair Madam Pomfrey has been heroically trying to keep clean is matted at places and frizzy at others. His skin, pulled so tightly over his skull that Harry wonders whether it hurts or feels unpleasantly stretched all the time, has a generally clammy and greenish-pale appearance that also reminds Harry of the time Aunt Petunia was horribly seasick. The shadowed depressions of his cheeks, the swollen red ridges of his eyes, and the uncommonly severe lines dragging alongside his mouth only secure the image in Harry's mind – so that for a moment, he can even envision Snape on a boat that smells overpoweringly of seaweed and barnacles and salt – Snape in his threadbare robes, exhausted and eroded and swaying dangerously on his feet –

He looks away before Snape can catch him daydreaming. "Why do you think you were dead? You didn't –" He hesitates. "You didn't see Dumbledore, did you?"

Snape twitches and slowly turns to stare angrily at Harry. "I did," he says in a menacing tone that just _dares_ Harry to contradict him.

Harry is not about to contradict him; he is, in fact, too busy coming to terms with the fact that Snape actually died. He swallows, hard. "That's odd. He didn't mention seeing you when I was there."

"I did not speak to him," says Snape significantly, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes. Harry does not understand the gleam to them now; it speaks neither of hatred nor anger nor sorrow. If anything, there is something at once satisfied and expectant about the way Snape's eyes continue to probe Harry's face. "There, Potter," he says, quiet and smug and fixated on Harry, "I believe we have established the fact of my death. Unlike your eminent self, I was not . . . empowered, shall we say, with a means of returning from the beyond. Ergo, I could not be here now without your having performed some seriously misguided spell."

"I wish you'd stop harping on about that," Harry says, but the annoyance has gone out of him. Indeed, Harry is rather tempted to sit down in his usual chair beside Snape's bed and gather up Snape's bony hand in his own. Talking about death makes him eager for comfort, even the meagre comfort represented by Snape, he supposes. And given what they both have experienced of death . . . "You make it sound like it's a crime for you to be alive."

"I await my escort to Azkaban at any moment," says Snape, but he sounds more sarcastic than resigned, and his eyes, while hooded, have not yet ceased their exhaustive perusal of Harry's face.

"You're not going to Azkaban," says Harry with a touch of impatience. He looks at the tempting chair, thinks about what scathing things Snape might say, then grits his teeth and strides over. Snape's eyebrows are climbing into his hairline, although it's unclear what his astonishment is due to: the announcement or the fact that Harry, despite much gnashing of teeth, is willingly standing right next to him.

"How is that?" Snape drawls, dark eyes now _riveted_ on Harry, who grinds his teeth again for good measure, then plops into the chair.

Harry glowers at the water jug positioned on the nearby bedside table in an attempt to undermine Snape's eerily intense scrutiny. "Kingsley's taken care of everything," he says, and cannot help but glance at Snape for his reaction. He gets nothing but that skin-crawling stare. Harry feels his brow furrowing as he continues, "There was a trial, you know. I testified on your behalf and they dropped all charges. You've also got an Order of Merlin, Second Class. Sorry I couldn't get them to agree to a First. And the Board has given their permission for you to teach at Hogwarts again, if you really want, although I for one would definitely understand if you told them just to piss off . . ."

Harry is discomposed, to say the least, when he fails to provoke a single reaction out of Snape. Even the mention of his Order of Merlin, Second Class does nothing to rile up any of the expected pleasure or spite. Instead, which is even more discomposing, Snape's attention has remained unremittingly directed on Harry – lingering on his throat and his mouth and _especially_ his eyes. Reflecting on this fact only makes it worse and somehow all the more exciting. Harry can feel the hair on his arms standing on end and his palms growing sweaty and itchy against his jeans. Of course, the explanation for Snape's behaviour is probably not the one Harry is hoping for. The earth would probably have to come to a standstill for _that_ to happen . . . Undoubtedly, Snape is just looking for signs of Lily in Harry's face.

Harry digs his fingers into his knees, suddenly rather keenly feeling the pressure of being compared to a parent, yet again.

God, why doesn't Snape seem to care about his Order of Merlin? And _why_ won't he stop looking at him?

It is therefore with some considerable relief on Harry's part when Snape finally turns his gaze to other objects in the room. The tension that has left Harry, however, seems to have settled in between Snape's deeply depressed shoulders. "Where is my wand?"

"In here." Eager to dispel the atmosphere between them, Harry leans forward and energetically opens a drawer in the table bearing the water jug. He does not notice Snape reaching in for his wand until their hands are practically touching.

Snape frowns and swats him away –

Harry thinks he hears a crackling sound and feels a shock, as if an electric spark had just shot between their fingers –

Jerking back in dismay, Harry pushes as far into his chair and away from Snape as possible. That has definitely never happened to him before, he thinks over his pounding heart. That should never, ever happen _again_. (Especially as it only serves to confirm that Harry is, for lack of a better word, screwed.) Bloody hell, what _was_ that?

Sneaking a glance upward, Harry immediately forgets his consternation at having never forged an electrical connection with Ginny before – Harry forgets his consternation over the even more distressing sight of Snape completely engrossed by his wand – as though nothing extraordinary had just taken place! Could Harry have merely imagined . . .?

Well, Harry is not going to make a fool of himself by asking that question aloud. After all, Snape is rather skilled at using denial to make Harry look like an idiot or a liar. No, the only way to get Snape to tell the truth about something like this is to force the situation – to _make_ him acknowledge its truth, so to speak –

Narrowing his eyes with determination, Harry sneaks his hand forward and _grabs_ one of Snape's – just as if it were a Snitch. It flutters and pulses and attempts to escape him just as a Snitch would, as well.

But Harry has never held a Snitch as _electrifying_ as Snape's hand. Why didn't he realise this before, when Snape was still pleasantly unconscious?

"Potter!" Snape is twitching madly against Harry, his wand slipping from nervous fingers onto the bedcovers.

"What?" Harry retorts, gently gathering those thin, elongated fingers (with long nails whose oval form he has spent many a night admiring) and their arched palm to his chest. "We do this all the time. I hold your hand a few hours a day, or have you forgotten? Madam Pomfrey says it's good for healing."

"Surely you do not believe in such nonsense," snarls Snape, trying to free his hand without success, the clear effect of muscle atrophy from a month's lack of exercise. "Get _off_ , Potter," he snaps, trembling now, and Harry gets a good look at his eyes – wider than he has ever seen them, the whites literally gleaming with panic. Unfortunately, as Harry well knows, Snape has a tendency to respond to panic with anger. "This is a new low even for you, Potter," he hisses furiously, wrist snapping like a dying fish, fingers scraping, scratching Harry's palm. "Let go of me at _once_ , and I may be inclined to overlook your little lapse – are you listening, Potter?" Snape snorts unpleasantly. "Clearly, death has not improved you by a whit . . . Very well then, Potter, consider yourself warned. I am not above helping you gain a reputation for having molested a teacher –"

Harry decides to tune Snape out. In a repeat experiment with electric shock, he lightly runs a finger against Snape's palm. The result is anything but disappointing: this time, he can feel the way Snape's already straining muscles tense – see the way his already dilated eyes seem to grow even larger and darker – the way the blood seems to drain from his already sickly face . . .

"Potter," Snape says in a dangerously quiet voice. Harry is shocked to realise that both of them have gone completely still, an effect, however, that Snape completely ruins by resuming his futile attempts to free his hand. "I will only say this once more. Un _hand_ me."

"This could be crucial to your recov—"

"Before I hex you, Potter!"

"Fine, fine," grumbles Harry, opening his hand. He expects Snape to withdraw his hand immediately. What he doesn't expect is for Snape to have the strength to suddenly grab him by the collar and drag him, choking, up to his eye-level –

Snape's fingers flex and flutter against Harry's throat. He's not all that strong, Harry senses. Just the attempt to crush Harry's oesophagus is taking the wind out of him . . .

"Try another stunt like that again," Snape mutters, "and I will make you live to regret it . . ."

There is a throbbing vein about to pop in Snape's brow, Harry notices in between painfully constricted breaths. He also looks a bit deranged with his crooked teeth bared and his enormous nostrils flaring wide and his eyes, shot through with yellow patches and broken red veins, practically dilated to the limit. It's not the best look on him . . . but Harry finds it strangely exciting anyway.

"Potter! Are you listening, Potter? I mean every word I say . . . try something like that with me again, and you will come to deeply regret having crossed Severus Snape . . ."

Harry closes his eyes and succumbs to the stranglehold, but only because that's the best angle with which to lean his forehead against Snape's. The spark, he notes with dizzy satisfaction, is unmistakeable this time –

Snape _yelps_ , shrinking back from Harry like a rumpled blackbird with trembling, bulging eyes.

"Did you feel it?" Harry gasps.

Snape shakes his head, eyes still wide with shock. "You are _insane_ ," he breathes.

Harry needs a moment to regain control of his breathing before he can speak again, but he gestures wildly at Snape's hand.

"It's good for both of us," he says, "even if you don't remember." And when Snape's lip curls with disbelief, Harry tells him what Hermione and Madam Pomfrey have so often explained: "It helped with your recovery. Madam Pomfrey said so. And as for me – it makes me feel grounded, I suppose. Like I'm useful."

"Insane," Snape repeats, and yet Harry thinks he can see an echo of himself in those eyes.

"Please?" Harry asks, pointedly scooting off the bed – Snape had dragged him over the edge in his attempt to intimidate him – and back onto the chair, but keeping his hand extended. "I won't touch you again – not if you really don't want me to."

Snape eyes him warily as he carefully re-arranges himself against the pillow and smoothes down the covers.

"See to it that you don't," he sniffs.

Harry gazes forlornly at the hands now picking away imaginary lint from the covers. Slender bones hammer up against the skin as Snape moves his fingers with a precision that reminds Harry of the exposed, splintered mallets in Mrs Figg's piano. "I should have known you'd be the same," he sighs.

"Had I realised the depths to which you have sunk, I would have had you thrown out of here," Snape says coldly.

"What's wrong with a bit of hand-holding?" Harry retorts. "It helped you loads while you were unconscious."

"At that point, I was unaware that _you_ –"

"So you _do_ remember something!" Harry exclaims, ready to cling to anything that could prove that some things, at least, have changed between them.

"I certainly remember being dragged back from the afterlife against my will, forced to obey the call of your magic!" Snape spits. "Yes, Potter – _your_ magic. Can you imagine the agony I felt at finding myself once again alive on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, knowing it was you who had summoned me?" Snape's voice drops so that it is barely above a whisper. "Surely it is not beyond the grasp of your imagination, Potter, to envision what it must have been like for me, believing you had either failed to understand or wilfully ignored my dying message . . . believing I had failed utterly, and in so doing damned the entire wizarding world –"

"Of course I can imagine what you must have felt – I can imagine it all too well, thanks very much! How do you think _I_ felt all the time?" shouts Harry past the lump building in his throat.

For a moment, Snape seems taken aback, and retreats slightly beneath the covers. His gaze, however, continues to search Harry's face with eyes that glitter malice and disdain and possibly something else . . . something desperate, perhaps.

Harry stares back, feeling desperate himself. Then, unable to take the scrutiny any longer, he bows his head and says, "Sorry. I do realise that not everything's about me. I know you had an awful time of it, Snape. I'm sorry."

Snape is back to sitting up straight, his mouth curled with disgust. "I do not need your pity," he snaps. "I want answers, Potter – answers! You must tell me what spell you used, and how long – how long I will be forced to bear this mortal coil before I am fated to move beyond the veil once more!"

"Snape, I _don't know_." Harry senses that it would be a bad idea to let Snape think too much about this, despite his growing belief that a certain stone may have been involved in Snape's resurrection, so he rushes ahead to belabour an old point. "But – just indulge me this once – give me your hand for a minute, would you?"

Black eyes narrow suspiciously. Harry thinks he sees something shift in their depths, and is inclined to describe it as a resurfacing of panic, even though he's hardly ever read Snape right before. "Please," Harry stresses, hoping his sincerity is clearly written across his face.

"If it will make you more inclined to answer my questions . . ." Snape says in a strangled voice. He makes a show of reluctantly placing a hand on the edge of the bed. Harry smiles and covers it with his own, much smaller palm and squarish fingers.

"Thanks."

Snape shoots him an annoyed look. "Is there a valid reason you wanted my hand, or am I to be subjected to further rubbish about naturopathic healing?"

Harry squeezes the hand beneath his. "Do I feel real, Snape?"

Snape makes a gagging sound.

"Well?"

"I have no inclination to play this game," Snape says icily, his entire arm vibrating with tension. "Whatever schemes you're hatching, Potter – either spit them out, or give me my hand back right now."

"It's just . . ." Harry skates his palm along Snape's lean fingers, enjoying their length and willowy, elongated shape. Snape's hands . . . they have a strange kind of beauty, like slender spiders dancing on webs. "If you weren't really alive, I doubt that you could feel this. I've summoned spirits before. You can't touch them, and you definitely can't put them in a coma or feed them or even look them in the eye the way I can look at you. I tend to think . . . whatever brought you back, you weren't entirely dead when it happened."

For several moments, there is no sound but for the slight rasp of Snape's breathing (the wound on his neck is not entirely healed, despite being covered by a thick, unnaturally shiny pink scar) and the faint filing of skin grazing against skin.

Harry smiles at their hands. "This is nice."

Snape's fingers twitch in response. Harry looks up and is astonished to see a faint trace of red climbing up that long, sallow neck. Intrigued, Harry tries to meet Snape's eyes, but they always seem to dart out of reach whenever Harry tries to pin them down.

"Are you quite finished?" Snape spits out after one more of these failed attempts, his now-reddened face twisted with mockery and misery and something else Harry has to guess at, but would probably peg as self-loathing if asked.

Harry shifts in his chair, wary. "Dunno. You?"

"I don't know what to make of this farce, Potter," he snarls, face turning sallow once more. The effect is remarkably ugly, and would have undoubtedly disgusted Harry at an earlier point in his life.

"It's not a farce," says Harry, privately reminding himself that he isn't that boy anymore. "I know what you're trying to do, by the way. It's not going to work."

Snape scowls. "I have no idea what you are babbling about, Potter. Just what do you think I am trying to do? Other than attempting to pry the information _that is my due_ from your fantastically warped and infantile mind?"

"If information were all you really wanted, you'd just use Legilmency," Harry points out, ignoring the deepening of Snape's scowl. He licks his lips and squeezes Snape's hand, as raw-boned and twiggy as a scarecrow's, then says with all the conviction and wisdom he can muster: "You can try and hide all you want – you can try and disguise yourself all you want. But you won't be able to make me hate you."

"How very touching," says Snape with a sneer, looking as though he deeply regrets ever having surrendered one of his limbs to Harry. "I'm sure I'll remember this conversation once you've left Hogwarts with your little friends."

Harry blinks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Snape glares, finally meeting Harry's eyes. "You _are_ thick," he says in a voice heavy with disgust. And then he is somehow sliding his hand out from under Harry's. Harry tries to hold him down at first, but then Snape curses –

The water jug explodes on its own, showering Harry with a shock-cloud of dust and unpleasantly cool liquid –

Shaken, Harry pulls pieces of jug out of his hair and from his shoulders. His limbs are trembling and there's a small gash in his upper arm and he can't quite bring himself to look at Snape. "What was that for?" he asks finally, quietly.

There is no immediate answer. Harry makes the mistake of glancing up.

Snape sneers at him, completely unapologetic, and Harry thinks his heart will stop at the sight, there is such accusation and loathing and malicious _glee_ twisted into the lines of Snape's face. "You'll live," he says in a scathing voice. "Now, get out."

And Harry does nearly turn to go, partly because he is soaked to the bone and covered in itchy, pulverised bits of blue glazed porcelain, but mostly because Snape is being an utter _arse_. Something tells him to hold his ground, however.

Snape's face twists even further, so that he fairly resembles a yellow-toothed, underfed rat. "Idiot. I said to _leave_."

Harry shakes his head against the pain building up in his throat, the pain of being kicked in the teeth. "Why?"

"Because I can't stand the sight of you, that's why," sneers Snape, and his tone is so perfectly, so thoroughly hateful that Harry doesn't even stop to think about the possible reason. He curls a trembling lip in real disgust, breathes hard against his constricting throat, and spins on his heel to march away –

The mostly-intact handle of the jug lands against the hangings with a powerful thud. "And don't even think of coming back!"

Harry is too infuriated to reply.

– – –

"What's gotten into you, mate?" Ron asks, wiping soot and sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Harry can't help but feel a pang of guilt whenever he thinks about all the work Ron – and Seamus and Dean and Neville and Luna and Ginny and . . . well everyone but himself, really – has been putting into helping re-build the castle. Harry himself only ever comes down to help when Snape gets other visitors, such as the Malfoys. His only reason for being here now is that Snape is . . . is . . .

He kicks at a sharply curved stone with the toe of his trainers, imagining it to be Snape's nose. "I'm just tired."

"Yeah?" Ron squints at him, not so easily fooled. His lips twist to one side, a mark of disapproval that never fails to make Harry squirm inwardly. "You were visiting _him_ again, weren't you."

Harry stops kicking in order to turn his glare on Ron. "Not _this_ again."

Ron steps close enough to lower his voice and still be heard above the construction work. "You've got to stop this, Harry. It's not healthy. Obsessing about your mum . . . I mean, I can see how it would be a shock, learning that _Snape_ fancied her, of all people –"

"Ron!" Harry exclaims, stunned. "That's not it at all!"

"Oh," says Ron, rubbing a red spot on his arm without the slightest trace of sheepishness. "Well, what is it, then? Ginny reckons it had to be your mum – Snape being the last person who really knew her, and all, and then with the way you kept sneaking off to have a look at that Pensieve –"

"Ginny's the one obsessed with my mum." Harry scowls. "I should never have let her see Snape's memories. Also, Ron? This may be news to you, but I returned them _ages_ ago."

Ron frowns at Harry's critical mention of Ginny – such mentions have been growing rather frequent lately, especially since Hermione's mediating influence Portkeyed off to Australia – but after a moment of hesitation, he braves a smile and claps Harry on the arm. "Well, I suppose you'd tell us what's bothering you if it were really important. We're all worried about you, though, Harry – Ginny especially."

"Thanks," says Harry darkly. He glares over his shoulder at the group of students levitating blocks of stone to form a wall, searching for long trails of carrot red hair. "Where is Ginny, anyway?"

Ron squints and scratches a spot behind his ear. "The greenhouses, maybe? I think I saw her going off with Luna and Neville."

"Right," Harry says, angry for reasons he isn't inclined to inspect and rather itching to take it all out on Ginny. How dare she give Ron a distorted account of Harry's . . . feelings for his mum? She doesn't even understand Lily – or him, Harry is beginning to suspect. "Well, I'm going to find her."

". . . OK," says Ron doubtfully. "Er, see you later then."

"Later," Harry says, storming off without a backward glance.

– – –

(Ginny snuck out to see the memories too: once, officially, with Harry, and then other times when she knew she wouldn't be missed. When Harry said he was returning them to Snape, she'd snuck out for the last time. Desperation and admiration and confusion had warred in her as she'd tried to manipulate the Pensieve into giving her what she wanted.

Lily was flirting with James and secretly laughing at Snape and Ginny was so filled with _understanding_ and disgust – who knew what Harry got up to with Snape, all those times he came to see him – that she tried to meld with Lily, to stand in for her in a way. Harry's mother had crept through her mouth and limbs like an immaterial eel, weightless and yet somehow depositing the sediment of self-disgust on her tongue. Ginny had not quite recovered, not quite managed to move out of Lily's space when she told Snivellus to wash his pants.)

– – –

"You are fucking _impossible_ ," declares Harry as he stomps past the hangings the next day, wand out in case Snape should decide to throw anything or, worse, try to hex him. Well, Harry is prepared to give back all he's got. "You are _fucking_ impossible, but –"

" _Mr_ Potter!" exclaims Madam Pomfrey, scandalised.

Harry comes to a sudden halt. "Sorry," he says, annoyed rather than apologetic.

He takes note of her wand, extended over Snape's sunken, nightshirt-clad chest, and recognises the tricolour diagnostic spell Hermione had used in the forest. Then he glances over at Snape – whose open-mouthed astonishment at seeing Harry again is already morphing into something darker, something sinister and dangerous and chilling.

It's enough to make Harry's veins begin thrumming with anger. "Could we be alone for a minute, please?"

"After that barbaric display? Certainly not!"

"You may leave, Poppy," murmurs Snape, sitting up straighter against the pillows, dark eyes lingering on Harry's mouth. Suddenly even more furious, Harry focuses on those eyes, forcing them to meet his own glower. "I am quite capable of dealing with Potter on my own."

Harry's heart pounds against the resentment trapped in his chest – how it clamours, clamours to be let out! He grits his teeth and locks gazes with Snape, daring him to use Legilmency . . . oh, yes, Harry _wants_ him to see into his mind . . .

And perhaps Snape _is_ using Legilmency, for his lips twitch – once – with evident disrelish.

Madam Pomfrey flicks her wand, ending the diagnostic spell. She frowns down at Snape. "Forgive me for doubting you, Severus, but I cannot see either of you behaving appropriately – or in a manner conducive to your health, for that matter – when left alone."

"Thank you for the _resounding_ vote of confidence," Snape says sarcastically, his eyes flicking away from Harry's to glare at Madam Pomfrey. "Nonetheless, I must ask you to accede to my request. It is, after all, _my_ health at stake."

Madam Pomfrey's frown deepens, but she pockets her wand in her smock and purses her lips. "You have five minutes, Mr Potter," she says cuttingly. "After that, I'm checking in on the both of you."

"Five minutes," Harry repeats, holding his breath until Pomfrey, with an admonishing huff, bustles past him through the hangings.

The atmosphere in the room seems much thicker suddenly. Clenching one of his fists, Harry looks down at his trainers, then over at the now-repaired water jug, then back down at his feet, as though his plan of action were inscribed in the tattered laces of his trainers.

"Well, Potter?" says Snape impatiently, once it becomes apparent that Harry is not going to be the first to speak. "Surely you did not come all this way, flinging curses, brandishing your wand, playing the _hero_ . . . simply in order to glower at the floor?"

"No," Harry blurts, then colours because that is _not_ how he wanted to sound. His grip tightens around his wand. "I really hate you right now, did you know that?"

Snape smirks, and only now does it occur to Harry that their eyes are no longer locked together. He frowns and tries to remedy that, to hold down Snape's eyes with his own, but doesn't succeed – it's as though he's chasing Snape's stupid eyes around the room in a game of Hide and Seek . . .

Then Snape, with a sharp jerk of his chin, lifts up his head and meets Harry's gaze on his own terms, his eyes shockingly, unpleasantly cold –

"What a terrible shame," he drawls, corneas glittering – twin glass shards that spitefully cut into Harry. "Allow me to lighten this great burden on your conscience, Potter. You cannot abide me. Fortunately, I cannot abide you myself. There is, therefore, no reason –"

"Shut up!" shouts Harry.

"Do _not_ interrupt me –"

"You're not my professor anymore, I can interrupt you if I very well like!" yells Harry. "Besides, you're always interrupting me – twisting my words around –" Snape opens his mouth to interrupt again, but Harry is determined to be even louder and perhaps Snape can tell, for his mouth instantly snaps shut again. "Like now, for instance! When I said that I hate you right now, that's all I meant – right now! It's like you have to deliberately misinterpret everything I say – it's not right – I'm tired of having to lie about everything – listening to you lie to me, to yourself, it's so _stupid_ –"

Snape hisses, but he has fallen back against his pillow and his face has reverted to the seasick colour Harry had seen it take on his previous visit.

Harry is strangely buoyed and terrified by the sight, and says: "I just – I want us to be friends. Or maybe . . ." His courage fails him here, so he hurries on to say, "You can be as horrible as you want – I'm not going to give up like my mum did. Because you may be the worst teacher I ever had – one of the nastiest blokes I've ever met, and that's saying something – but you're _good_. And you can understand – you know what it's like to wake up from the dead not quite knowing why you decided not to stay, not quite knowing what this world is and what it wants from you and why you have to be a part of it – you _know_ ," Harry says, and there are, inexplicably, tears in his eyes, blurring the sight of Snape before him. He thinks he hears himself let out a sob – how pathetic – and yet it's too late to give up now . . .

"You _know_ ," he begins again, feeling warm, absurd tears track their way down his cheeks, "and I'll bet anything you're just as lost as I am, Snape. And I can't help but think . . . the only way we can get out of this mess is together. So – please – stop trying to push me away –"

And Harry has to take off his glasses to wipe his eyes, and he is shaking and trying to find something to hold, to keep his balance against, and his voice has caught in his throat.

" _Please_ ," he repeats.

"Potter," says Snape, so quietly and in such an uncharacteristically deflated voice that Harry does not immediately respond, thinking it a trick of his mind.

"Yes?" he asks, pushing his glasses back up his nose and bracing for the – inevitable – rejection.

". . . Come here," Snape says even more quietly.

Harry wipes at his face angrily as he advances towards the bed, plopping down on the edge before Snape can change his mind. He sniffs, unpleasantly aware that his face is about to be covered in snot. "Is this where you tell me that I'm a dunderhead and try to strangle me for good measure?"

Snape huffs. Something about the light changes, and belatedly Harry realises that his glasses have been pried from his nose. Then – Harry goes still – Snape's finger, warm and pitiless, is wiping the tears away. "You are suffering under a delusion," Snape says in a voice that is barely above a whisper. Harry shivers as the warmth of that whisper hits his face, as the skin touched by that small yet monumental breath caves inward and sends ripples across his nerves . . .

"Whom do you see?" he asks mirthlessly and deliberately formal (Snape did teach him a few things about grammar), once it occurs to him that Snape is probably just unnerved by the sight of tears in his mother's eyes.

Snape withdraws his touch and ignores the question. "What makes you think that your mother was wrong to end her association with me?"

"She gave up," says Harry.

"She was right to do so," says Snape, managing to sound both authoritative and surprised. He hesitates, then adds in a sardonic tone, "I did not show you everything, you know – only that which would convince you of my loyalty to your side."

 _Your side_. It sounds so solemn, so grim, so promising, and yet without his glasses, Harry feels too self-conscious to appreciate the overtones. He feels stupid and young and inadequate, a poor replacement for brilliant, beautiful, self-assured Lily. It's no wonder that Snape sneers at everything Harry has to say. He's probably running mental comparisons to Lily all the time, and remembering how much better she was at everything. . .

Harry nearly startles as Snape's finger returns to his face and presses against a stray tear. It's funny, Harry thinks: Snape dries tears the way one might stomp out an ant.

An ant – or a fear. The metaphor is . . . oddly comforting, all the more so because Harry came up with it. Maybe he isn't completely hopeless after all . . . And Harry finds himself drawing in a breath and trying to explain. "She wasn't always right. She . . . I think she looked down on you. Like Petunia, only different. You were too poor and dirty and . . ." Harry considers saying queer, but thinks better of it, "eccentric, and she could have fought harder for you. She could have at least listened more –" Harry stops at the unexpected prickle of even more tears breaking into his eyes, but Snape reaches up and swiftly, lightly brushes them away before they can fall.

(You're queer. I know you are. 'Cause I think I am too. Maybe she would have rejected _me_ , Harry thinks, but can't bring himself to say.)

Snape is grimacing. "I did not listen to _her_. You clearly were not paying very close attention to our conversations."

"I _was_ ," insists Harry past the lump in his throat. "I watched your memories over and over again. I'll bet you've never analysed them as closely as I have. And I'm pretty sure that mum liked you a lot as a friend. But she wasn't . . . she didn't . . ." Harry sways slightly closer to Snape, desperately wanting to take his hand, to touch him in return, and yet wary of breaking this fragile truce between them. Wary of ruining everything – and waking up. "I _know_ what it means to be a friend. Hermione and Ron and I – we would never give up on one another, no matter _what_ –"

"Mr Weasley repudiated your friendship several times," counters Snape, impatient.

"But never _permanently_. Never – like that. And the same is true in reverse. If Ron had ever called Hermione or me – that name – she would have found it in herself to forgive him. So would I. Maybe not all at once – actually, definitely not all at once." Harry sucks in a long, jagged breath. "That's not the point. We wouldn't make the leap that he just had to be a Death Eater and waved off everything he ever said about the, you know, dashing yet bullying Quidditch stars as jealous tripe."

Snape is shaking his head so that even Harry, with his abysmal vision, can see his black hair writhing. "As ever, Potter, you have overlooked the crucial point. You and Mr Weasley and Miss Granger are all Gryffindors. Hogwarts, as an institution, encourages your friendship –"

"Yeah, but –"

"Do not interrupt. It is one of your more vexing mannerisms. As I was saying: I am a Slytherin, Potter. I do not believe I have to spell out what that means. Your mother was, as a result, constantly under pressure to end our association. She was a Muggleborn with very little idea of the wizarding world – desperately in need of an anchor, Potter, one I could not provide. It was only natural that she would turn to her housemates for support, and, of course, make the sacrifices upon which that support was contingent. Remember, _I_ did the same."

"You apologised," Harry points out. "That has to count for something. As for my mum – you make it sound as though all she cared about was strategy, and I know for a fact that Gryffindors don't think that way –"

"Perhaps _you_ don't," says Snape in a tone of voice that edges on his usual scathing contempt for Harry's ignorance. "Your friends, however, are a different story . . . Moreover, with the Dark Lord on the rise, your mother would have been extremely short-sighted to have _not_ sought out strategic alliances within her House."

"Except that they were stuffed-up arseholes! _I_ wouldn't have given up on you – especially not for them!"

Snape does not reply at once, and Harry realises that he is busy placing Harry's glasses back on his nose. Blinking at the sudden visual shift, the first thing Harry notices is that Snape is leaning as far away from him as possible. Then he sees the pursed lips and furrowed brow. Snape is also definitely avoiding Harry's gaze again, as though the glasses had sprung up a wall between them.

Harry finds this rather depressing.

"Did you not decide that Draco Malfoy was evil the very moment you stepped into Hogwarts?" asks Snape suddenly.

Harry blinks, unsure where the question is coming from. "If you're trying to make a point about how all Gryffindors think Slytherins are evil, then Malfoy isn't a good example," he says slowly. "I met him before I even knew about the different Houses, and the reason we didn't get along is because I thought he was spoiled and arrogant and a bully. I guess it was a bit like your first meeting with Sirius and James. First impressions stick." Harry draws in a breath. "But if you're trying to draw a parallel between you and mum and Malfoy and me, then I don't exactly follow you. I mean, Malfoy and I were never even friends. And then, I never completely gave up on him. Not really. Maybe I didn't show it while we were still at school, but I think I've figured out where he's coming from now, and . . . I guess I'd like to give him another chance." Harry glances up at Snape's heavily fortressed eyes and knows with sudden certainty that he and Lily never reconciled. How must that feel, being left to forever wonder what might have been . . .?

Snape looks vaguely troubled, as though he is aware of the direction of Harry's thoughts. Harry strongly wants to touch him – and not just his hands, but also his lurid, weary face, his washed-out lips, his crinkled eyelids with their long, thick lashes . . . Harry doesn't quite know _why_ he wants such things, but . . . he wants them.

But whom does Snape see?

He smiles tentatively, watching as Snape's irises open up to take Harry in as though he were something curious or unusual. This makes Harry feel a bit better, a bit less like a barely tolerated surrogate for Lily, and he laughs, although the tears still buried in his throat muffle the sound. "You were – I would have loved you as a kid. We'd have understood each other, you and me . . . me in my cousin's hand-me-downs, you in your mum's blouse . . . So you may have come across as a little creepy, sometimes, but I would have loved you all the same –"

"Enough," says Snape, shuddering and falling back against his pillow. He looks exhausted.

"I mean it."

Snape shudders again. "You are plainly overwrought, confused –"

At that moment, Snape's eyes grow shuttered and flat and his face assumes a neutral mask. Harry is perplexed at first, but the click of heels against stone provides explanation enough. That was definitely longer than five minutes, he thinks.

"I think that's quite enough for today, Mr Potter – Professor Snape needs his rest," says Madam Pomfrey, bustling over to Snape's other side and picking up his wrist to feel his pulse. If she finds it odd that Harry is sitting on Snape's bed, she doesn't mention it. "You've _exhausted_ him!" she exclaims, dropping Snape's wrist to glare at Harry.

"Sorry," says Harry to Snape, whose eyes are now shut. He has brought up the fallen hand, Harry notices, in a fist on the pillow, but the other remains loose and unclenched and tantalisingly within reach . . .

"May I come back tomorrow?" Harry asks, glancing at Madam Pomfrey. She has begun uncapping several potions bottles and is clearly readying herself to apply them to Snape's throat.

She frowns and glances at Snape. Inexplicably, as he looks rather wan and unhappy, her gaze clears; she nods. "Perhaps you two could go on a walk. He won't be up to much, but it would be good to get him out into some fresh air. Are you listening, Severus?"

"I most emphatically refuse to be gawked at," mutters Snape, eyes still screwed shut.

Harry is overcome with such _warmth_ that he can't help but laugh. "I won't let anyone gawk," he promises, only barely suppressing the urge to squeeze Snape's hand as he gets to his feet.

Madam Pomfrey's eyes are darting between them knowingly. Beneath Harry's immediate scrutiny, of course, she turns back to uncapping potions. "Until tomorrow, then, Mr Potter."

"I can't wait," Harry bursts out.

Madam Pomfrey raises an eyebrow. Harry colours, turning to leave, but not before he sees Snape staring up at him from gleaming, slitted eyes.

– – –

"I was thinking we could go to the top of the hospital tower," Harry tells Snape the next day. "I mean, it's right here, and nobody ever goes up there."

Snape grimaces, clearly out of sorts with the idea of leaving his sealed-off space. He has been, it must be said, unusually jumpy ever since Harry arrived, snarling and snapping at practically every suggestion Harry or Madam Pomfrey have made and stroking the handle of his wand with disturbing possessiveness, as though planning out all the hexes he will use on whomever witnesses him in his weakened state.

"We can even use my cloak, if you like," says Harry, not something he would offer just _anyone_ , as Snape should well know – only to receive a glower in return. "No cloak, then," Harry sighs, looking to Madam Pomfrey for help.

"You look quite dashing, my dear," she tells Snape smoothly. "No one would know you had been unconscious for over a month, I can guarantee you that."

Snape bares his uneven teeth, plainly unimpressed by this logic. He is wearing his only pair of black robes (the other set had been eaten through by blood and venom and battle and is still being patched together by House Elves) and even Harry can tell that they're slightly too large on him, sagging somewhat sadly at his narrow wrists and chest. His legs have been deemed too weak for more than a stagger to the other end of the hospital wing; Pomfrey has therefore restricted his mobility to an enchanted wheelchair. Harry attributes Snape's considerable displeasure at this news to the fact that the wheelchair – a spindly, fussy 19th century construction – not only fails to inspire any sense of danger and drama, but also looks _really_ uncomfortable.

He can understand Snape's position. But it would be easier to sympathise with him if he wouldn't keep shooting accusing glares at his only sympathiser, Harry, whenever said sympathiser attempted to make the situation somewhat easier to bear.

By the time that they're finally off, Harry is nearly in as sour a mood as Snape, and that's quite saying something.

"Can't you push any faster?" Snape grouses once they find themselves nearly getting stuck in the staircase to the tower roof, which is very narrow and difficult to navigate, particularly because of the buggy levitation charm on the chair.

"Cut me some slack, Snape – this – _thing_ – is a menace. I don't think you realise how hard it is to get it to move up the stairs –"

"Stop complaining, you little twerp, and push!"

For a moment, Harry is shocked into silence. Then: " _You're_ a menace," he mutters, perfectly aware that Snape can hear him.

"What did you say, Potter?" says Snape in a dangerous voice, black hair – not quite greasy thanks to Madam Pomfrey, but tousled and knotted and overly long all the same – snapping audibly around his head.

"I think you're being rather unfair given what I have to work with, sir," says Harry loudly.

"Oh, you do, do you," Snape breathes, struggling to turn around in the chair and ultimately failing, which only incenses him enough to make him bang a fist against one of the wooden armrests. "Potter! Either put your back into getting me up these stairs, or I shall get out of this chair and make _you_ carry me!"

Harry grinds his teeth, _pushing_ with all his might. Admittedly, he takes his strength from several uncharitable thoughts of Snape toppling out of the chair onto his face or even all the way back down the stairs . . .

" _Finally_ ," Harry heaves, once they have reached the tower battlements. Thankfully, there is a stone bench straight ahead; he rolls Snape into a position facing it before half-collapsing, half-seating himself and casting a Cooling Charm on his sweat-ridden face.

Snape sneers, looking disgustingly rested and dry. "That was pathetic, Potter. Six years of magical education and it did not once occur to you to use a Featherweight Charm?"

Harry bites his tongue until he is fairly certain it will start to bleed. He won't give Snape further ammunition for a fight, he just won't . . . Rolling onto his back, Harry spreads the whole length of his body against the stone expanse. Stares upward. Leaden stormclouds are gathering overhead, so close to the castle Harry has the impression he could reach up and pull whole tufts of them out of the sky. The hairs on his arm, he notes with a shiver, are standing on end – and the air, as he breathes it in, seems to crackle with latent energy.

It's all very pleasant, if one ignores Snape, Harry thinks, closing his eyes and drifting in and out of thoughts . . .

Why on earth he did he ask Snape to be his friend – or more pertinently, why did he spend most of last night _wanking_ over the git? . . . Clearly, it will be impossible to spend any time with Snape outside of his comfort zones . . . Harry suddenly has a horrifying vision of remaining cordoned off with Snape behind white hangings – a vision of never seeing his friends again – or worse, having to helplessly watch Snape throw endless and passionate tantrums at his friends. The mere thought is enough to induce a migraine . . .

Harry grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes firmly shut. After what seem several long minutes, he thinks he hears a metallic, scuttling noise. A second later, he hears something like the creak of wood.

A resigned sigh . . .

Harry turns his head, opens his eyes and is taken aback to find Snape's gaze already fixed on his face. He frowns inwardly, wishing he knew how to read Snape – wishing he knew what those glinting, sinister eyes could _mean_ –

He finds himself sitting up halfway, chest propped by an elbow, blinking away sour dreams and resentment. Snape watches him all the while, his expression unfathomable.

"Do you ever want to leave?" asks Harry.

Snape tilts his head, letting black hair fan across his face and hide one of his eyes. The other continues to glint unreadably at Harry. "I presume you mean Hogwarts?"

Harry nods, oddly moved by the sight of Snape hiding behind his hair.

Snape turns away from Harry, facing the scarred battlements, then the crumbling towers looming from above, then the tips of the trees swaying below. "Hogwarts has been my home for nearly all my life," he says quietly, turning his gaze down to his hands. They lie steepled together, spectral, still, in his lap. "Why should I wish to leave?"

Harry pushes himself all the way into a sitting position. "Because it's always the same. Because there's a whole _world_ out there to explore . . . places where they don't know you, where they've never heard of me . . ."

Snape makes a derisive sound. "Surely you aren't suggesting that we travel together, Potter?"

Harry hadn't quite thought that far, but now that Snape has planted the idea, he kind of likes it. After all, with Hermione off in Australia with her parents and Ginny (and Ron by extension) no longer exactly speaking to him, he currently has no one else to travel with. "Well, why not? I haven't been anywhere but Hogwarts and London and Ottery St. Catchpole and a few other random, uninteresting places – a locked cupboard in Surrey, a dingy hotel in Cokeworth, a hut on a rock in the sea –"

"Cokeworth, you say?" interrupts Snape.

"Or somewhere nearby," frowns Harry, trying and failing to remember anything but a gloomy room with a railway view. "We were only there for the night. My aunt and uncle were trying to outrun the owls with my Hogwarts letters –"

"I merely mention it," Snape says, irritated, "because that is the town where Petunia and your mother once lived."

"Really? Aunt Petunia never said . . ." Snape lowers his brow in evident disbelief. Suddenly annoyed, Harry snaps, "She never spoke about mum unless she couldn't help it, as I'm _pretty_ sure you can imagine. Um, let's not talk about Aunt Petunia. Is Cokeworth where you live now?"

"Planning on inviting yourself over, are you, Potter?" Snape sneers.

Harry flushes. " _No_. God, you really do think I'm like James. For your _information_ , Snape, I wouldn't come _near_ your house unless you actually invited me – not that I expect you ever will . . ." Harry is stammering and hates it. He clenches a fist. "Look, all I wanted to know was whether you still had a house in Cokeworth. You indirectly answered my question, now let's move on. Why don't you want to travel?"

"I don't believe I ever said such a thing," says Snape from behind the shoulder-length veil of his hair. Harry glares, certain that he can see dark eyes glittering with amusement at his own expense.

"Can't you ever just answer a question directly?" he gripes.

Snape smiles, a twisted, spooky curve of his lips. "Perhaps you should learn to ask better questions."

"Do you want to leave Hogwarts?" asks Harry, grinding his teeth. "Yes or no?"

"Clearly you wish for me to say yes," says Snape, lips curling down with disdain. "Although I cannot fathom why." As Harry opens his mouth to retort, Snape continues somewhat more loudly, "Potter. If you are so desperate to leave Hogwarts behind, why not do so? I am certainly the last person who would try and keep you here."

"I wish you would," mutters Harry darkly.

"Pardon?" says Snape, but Harry knows that he has heard every word, for his eyes are narrowed suspiciously.

"I wish you did care," Harry says, dropping his eyes to his trainers to escape Snape's coldly incredulous gaze. "I wish . . . I wish _I_ didn't care about you so much. I know you'll never feel the same about me, and that I'm just being stupid . . ." He stands, still carefully avoiding looking at Snape, and moves to gaze over the battlements.

Snape says nothing, which suits Harry just fine. He looks down at the Black Lake, its gleaming, pitch-dark surface roiling in the wind, and then over at the rustling forest. He thinks he can smell the rowans and pines, overripe berries and chilled mud and spoiled, bitter leaves, harbingers of the coming fall . . .

"Maybe I will leave," he says, turning halfway towards Snape. "You and Ginny can't wait to see the last of me – I broke up with Ginny, you see – and Hermione isn't here to help mend things with Ron. I guess there's not really much reason left to stay." He shrugs, turning back to look at the forest. "Maybe Luna would come with me. I think she'd like that. We could go find Hermione and her parents in Australia, or go to the African desert – see the pyramids, maybe. Or go to Paris . . ."

Harry thinks of exotic animals . . . of the jazzy travel brochures Aunt Petunia used to collect with the drawings of grand ships and aeroplanes on the covers . . . how he had wanted as a child to fly in an aeroplane with smartly dressed stewardesses and pilots wearing leather caps and tinted goggles . . . even now, knowing that flying in a plane can't be nearly as exciting as flying a broom, he feels a pang of nostalgia for the thought . . .

Snape can fly, he remembers with a start.

"One thing," he says, turning around completely, although still not quite trusting himself to look Snape in the face. "Before I leave you alone like you want. I'd like you teach me one last thing."

There is a dead kind of silence. Harry glances up from his perusal of the ground and sees that Snape's mouth is set in an expressionless line, that Snape's shoulders are hunched as though he were preparing against an attack, and that the wind has violently arranged Snape's hair all over his face. It's spread in jagged tufts over his eyes and much of his formidable nose and somehow reminds Harry of a ripped funeral shroud.

"I don't seem to remember having much success at teaching you anything, Potter," says Snape in a flat voice.

"I know, and that's partly my fault." Harry straightens. "This time, I promise to listen carefully and do everything you say."

Snape looks irritable; he shifts restlessly in the wheelchair. Harry is so absorbed in watching him – is so hopelessly entranced by the angles of his wrists and fingers, the austere play of black against lurid white he will probably never have a chance to study again – that he nearly falls over his own feet when Snape suddenly snaps, " _Well_? What is it you wish to be taught?"

"Would –" Harry moves in an erratic line towards Snape, not noticing how his eyes flare with apprehension. "So if this is completely dark and out of my league, you can just tell me straightaway. But if not –" Harry comes to a halt directly in front of the wheelchair, "would you teach me how to fly?"

Snape snorts humourlessly. There is a vein twitching in his jaw. "I should have guessed that you would only be interested in such a stupid trick."

Harry narrows his eyes, but when he refuses to rise to the bait, Snape merely sneers. "Very well, Potter. I shall teach you this once, but only because I am currently bored out of my mind and because I hereafter expect to find myself in the happy situation of never having to teach you again." Still sneering, Snape pulls out his wand and flicks it, transfiguring stray bits of rubble into an inflatable cushion. The spell should be simple enough, but seems to exert him, for his breath is short when he points at the cushion and tells Harry: "Stand over there."

Harry obeys. Unconsciously, he begins jostling up and down on his heels, as though warming up for Quidditch practice.

"Flying," says Snape, scowling at the rasp in his voice, "is not such a difficult task, despite how it may look . . . You will perhaps recall that your mother mastered the basic principle at the age of nine. Stop fidgeting, Potter!" Chagrined, Harry settles down on his heels and attempts to stand still. "Better," says Snape coldly. "Now, put away your wand. You will discover that this kind of magic is based solely in the mind – no wand-waving is required."

"Sounds like Occlumency," mutters Harry, who then wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. What a great way to remind Snape of how much he hates him . . .

Snape sneers. "Let us hope that you are considerably more gifted in this arena," he says, which Harry thinks is an incredibly mild statement, considering the source. Heartened, he finds it in himself to look Snape in the eye.

Who stares back, eyes glittering and seemingly swirling with secrets. "Tell me, Potter, why do you think so few wizards know how to fly?"

"Er – because they don't think they can?"

"Correct," says Snape, his lip curling. "The key to flying lies in overcoming your deeply-ingrained instinctual belief that gravity is holding you down. Do this, Potter, and you will find yourself capable of levitating your body from the ground, and with practice, even of navigating great distances through the air."

"That . . . sounds really hard," Harry admits.

Snape, eyes still boring into Harry's eyes, leans forward in the wheelchair and steeples his fingers together on his knees. "Close your eyes, and listen to me." He waits until Harry's eyes are closed, then says, voice low and hypnotic and barely audible over the chafing sounds of the growing storm breeze, "Imagine that you are like the wind . . . being pulled across this earth in a strong current, forced to obey natural laws . . . Can you imagine that, Harry?"

Harry barely manages to nod, he is made so light-headed by the sound of his name.

"Then try to behave as the wind behaves . . . touching the earth and never being touched, always tugged away, farther and farther and faster like a building stream . . . Imagine rising and rising towards the sun and then winding slowly back down to the dust . . . and then understand that you are not only wind, that you, yourself, have the power of will . . . that you, like the birds, can control your own rise and fall . . . _You_ have the power to map out the world beneath you, to choose what part of it to see . . . Open your eyes now . . ."

Harry obeys, and he doesn't need to look down to know that he is hovering at least a foot above ground. He grins at Snape –

Snape who has gotten up from the wheelchair and watches him with a perfectly unreadable expression, yet whose eyes shine with something endlessly bright, like pride or love or regret, underlaid by something darker, inherently destructive –

Snape, whose eyes do not stop shining when Harry looks into them –

Suddenly Harry's feet are back on the cushion and he is pushing himself off and rushing to Snape – Snape who is trying to seat himself again and looks simultaneously mesmerised and alarmed by the sight of Harry –

"Severus," says Harry, grabbing him by trembling shoulders and tangled black hair and wanting nothing, nothing more than to kiss him.

"Don't," gasps Snape, pulling away but not getting far. He stumbles over the hem of his robes – and twitches violently when Harry catches him. Blindly, he feels past Harry for the wheelchair. "Let go of me –"

"But –"

"You don't know what you're doing," Snape snarls, panicked and yet deeply convinced by his own words. "Stupid boy – you can't just throw your life away for something like this. You don't even understand what this _is_ , do you –"

"I know exactly what this is," Harry interrupts, tightening his grip around the atrophied, fluttering chest. Snape's heart is beating so furiously that Harry thinks he would probably collapse were Harry to let go. "I've been thinking –"

"Once again, Potter, you make an art of jumping into a situation without having considered all the facts," Snape interrupts, voice biting and condemning and heavy with self-loathing. "Allow me, once again, to disabuse you of your romantic notions. You are fraternising with a _murderer_. A murderer, Potter, who most emphatically belongs in Azkaban. Albus Dumbledore was hardly the first or last I killed." When Harry merely tightens his grip around him, Snape lets out a desperate noise. "For God's sake, Potter, I betrayed your parents – your _mother_ , my most beloved friend –"

Harry closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tentatively rests his head on Snape's emaciated shoulder, cheek against the decomposing fabric, nose brushing against the thickly whorled scar. "I know."

"How can you say that?" Snape hisses, shaking Harry from his shoulder and looking slightly deranged. "What makes you think that you can just – decide – what I am? If this is more of your arrogance, Potter, then I want no part of it –" Snape is reaching for the wheelchair again, and Harry finds himself torn between the instinct to let him sit down and the desperate need to keep them face to face, eye to eye . . .

"Do you understand me, Potter?" Snape is swaying away from Harry now and nearly shrieking. "I WANT NO PART OF IT!"

"Yeah, I get it, you berk!" Harry shouts back. When Snape recoils, nearly falling backward over the wheelchair, Harry does not try to catch him. "Why don't you listen to _me_ for once – it's not like I'm not the only one of us who's always jumping to conclusions! This isn't about redemption or my mum or Dumbledore or what the world might think. Why can't you just accept the fact that – I – need – you? And God help me, more than just as a teacher or friend. There are times when I want you so much I feel I'm going _mad_ –"

"A passing illusion that shall be over soon enough," says Snape, stooping at the waist with one hand clutching an armrest of the wheelchair. There is something in his eyes that tells Harry more about repressed passion than he thinks Snape intended to share.

It makes Harry even angrier. Snape, he thinks, is such a hypocrite. "Why is this an illusion?" he demands. "You've been acquitted of all charges, and I really like you, and I think you –" And at the disgusted curl of Snape's lip, Harry furiously changes tactics. "Besides, who's to say I'm any better than you? What about all the Unforgivables _I've_ used? _You_ were always the one who tried to stop me – not Dumbledore, not McGonagall, not Sirius or Remus! All the mistakes I ever made – you were always trying to teach me, to show me how _not_ to be. Snape, you tried to keep me away from Dark Magic – and I went ahead and used it anyway! So I didn't use the Killing Curse on Voldemort! Great! I still killed him, because I was sure as hell betting on the fact that his own curse would rebound!"

Pausing for breath, Harry belatedly realises that Snape is no longer clutching at the wheelchair, but standing unsteady before him, brows furrowed at the ground. His face is greenish-pale, as though he might faint. And at that – all of a sudden, Harry finds his anger being replaced by concern.

Very slowly, very gently, as though dealing with one of Hagrid's beasts, Harry re-closes the distance between them. And when Snape does not protest, when Snape sags against him for support, Harry finds the courage to lift a hand to the back of that long and ravaged neck. "Don't you realise how much we're alike?" he whispers, palm skimming upward through coarse and tangled hair.

"No," rasps Snape, stiff against Harry, despite having very nearly collapsed against him. "I am twenty years your senior, Potter, not to mention an ugly, ill-tempered recluse who ruined his every chance when he was younger than you are now. I have nothing further to seek on this earth. I should be dead."

Harry cradles the back of Snape's head so that their foreheads can meet, just as they had in the hospital wing. This time, Snape doesn't react to the electric shock. "Your life has only just gotten started," Harry says softly.

Snape stiffens further.

"I'm not just talking about me," Harry adds. He pauses for a moment, wondering whether he should qualify his statement. Snape, after all, has not made any declarations to him. For once in his life, however, Harry is prepared to hope that such qualifications won't be necessary. He takes a steadying breath and continues: "There's plenty still to be done: Death Eaters to track down and school curriculums to update and policies to be implemented to make sure that nothing like this ever happens again." He attempts a laugh, brushing his nose once against Snape's neck. The scent of Snape's sweat and stress and exhaustion is sour and not entirely pleasant, and yet Harry longs to taste it in his mouth. "You wouldn't want to leave all of that to Gryffindors, would you?"

Snape says nothing, a warm, and dead weight on Harry's chest. At first Harry is annoyed, but then he realises he has found his answer in the fact that Snape has allowed him even this far, holding him and stroking his neck and hair.

It has begun to rain – heavy, large drops that cool instantly on the skin – when Snape finally says, very quietly: "I'd like to sit down."

Harry hides his disappointment – a part of him was still hoping for a kiss – and nods his understanding.

With Snape back in the wheelchair, Harry is suddenly unsure how to approach him. He isn't quite ready to go back to pushing Snape from behind. Nor does he particularly feel like falling down on his knees in order to maintain eye-level. And as sitting on Snape's lap is probably out of the question . . .

"Do you want to go back to the hospital wing?" he asks, striving to keep his tone neutral.

Snape nods, his expression closed. Instead of waiting for Harry to move to the back of the chair and push, however, he presses a button on the armrest that Harry had not noticed before. A lever suddenly springs out of a hidden panel.

"I discovered this while you were lying on that bench," says Snape quietly, pushing the lever forward and making the wheelchair move on its own. He does not look up at Harry. "Perhaps it shall save us some trouble on the stairs."

Harry bites his lip and closes his eyes against the tears that have been welling there for he knows not how long. "Great."

"Potter . . ."

"No, I get it," says Harry, clenching his eyes so tightly that the tears seem to evaporate in his lashes. He opens his eyes, hyperaware of the rain pelting against his glasses and leaving thick, opaque slashes on the lenses. Automatically, he begins heading towards the stairs. "Let's go."

"Potter, wait."

Harry stops, but does not turn around. He hears a faint whirring sound that he knows must be the wheelchair, and closes his eyes, unable to deal with the concept of Snape moving forward without him.

"Look at me, Potter."

Harry glances down and is shocked to realise that Snape has parked the wheelchair directly before him. He hesitates, wondering whether he should kneel.

And then Snape's fragile, beautiful hands are upon him, resting delicately on his hips. And Snape is staring up at him, seeking his eyes with such bewilderment and brightness and hunger in his own – with such need –

Harry has been hard ever since the flying lesson – but this –

Snape holds his gaze a moment longer, then slowly inclines his head so that his cheek is buried in Harry's lower chest.

Harry cannot breathe – it takes the greatest of effort just to control his hands, to bring them up to lightly cup Snape's head and jaw . . .

"I did not make such sacrifices in order for you to regret the life you live," mutters Snape, hands twitching once.

"I don't. Not with you here."

Snape stiffens, his voice hard and low. "Do not read more into this than there is."

"Is that –" Harry clears his throat. "Is that your way of telling me to piss off? Or are you just torturing yourself? Because if that's the case, then you can just save yourself the trouble."

Snape's head jerks, only to be caught by Harry's hands. "You would be wise not to underestimate the lengths I would go to in order to prevent you from throwing yourself away on me."

Harry gently strokes his hair, rough and rain-patterned in a way reminiscent of the iridescent, bedraggled feathers of a crow. "Anyone but you, and I probably _would_ be throwing myself away."

Snape frowns against Harry's chest and begins to pull back – pulling Harry's heart with him as if a string connected them – and suddenly their positions are reversed as Harry finds himself falling to his ankles and knees, his hands gripping onto Snape's arms, pleading . . .

Snape's mouth opens slightly, revealing the dull shine of yellow teeth, his chapped and colourless lips so thin and curved they seem mocking even when this relaxed. His eyes have grown wide, the irises overlarge and straining to overcome the swollen red rims of his eyes.

Harry feels the stalks of his own eyes being stretched to the limit, but he does not care if it hurts to see. He wants to see all of Snape, rather than these fragmented isolated glimpses of eyes and nose and mouth . . . He wants it all, and all at once.

But the storm chooses then to grow to such strength that it doesn't matter how hard Harry tries to influence the visual cortex of his brain: he can no longer see through his glasses, they are so streaked and fogged. As though he could suck Snape's essence to him, his mouth opens, greeting the rainwater and the electricity of the dissolving drops. He splutters, raising unseeing eyes to the sky, then lowering them to the dark outline that is Snape. Down the tapered length of Snape's arms slide Harry's fingers and palms, orienting themselves briefly on knobbly wrists, then hastening on to limp hands, to their fading calluses and slick inner webbings and pliant, lightly furrowed nails . . .

Slowly Harry inches closer, until his upper body is nearly wedged between Snape's legs. And it doesn't matter that he is practically blind – his hands know their way. He cups the back of Snape's head and slants it so that he knows it is gazing down on his own. "Tell me you don't want this," he says.

"Harry . . ."

"Because I really do," Harry says, swallowing. "I want to kiss you, here in the rain – I want everything. I want to see the world with you, even to see Cokeworth with you – I want to watch you scribble notes in your books and invent incredible things and _argue_ and be brilliant. And I couldn't care less what everyone else thinks or what rubbish they have to say – I know my real friends will understand. Snape, if you want even a fraction of this, too – if you want it but are just too afraid to say, like my mum – God, I know you're not a coward!"

Harry's throat opens to say something else, but he has never been good with words, and his wit fails him. He tries, instead, to communicate with his hands, and yet cannot overlook the fact that Snape is neither moving nor responding. The silence begins to take on the iciness of the rain, the blackness of Snape's robes . . .

Shit, Harry thinks with a sinking dizziness, he must have really offended Snape. Shit, shit . . . He fidgets. Something seems to curdle inside of him. Slowly, he removes his hands from Snape and bows his own head. He is suddenly painfully aware of the thrashing rain and black silence and his own tortured, constricted breaths.

Something warm lands on his rain-plastered hair. Harry squints, confused, as the warmth shifts and intensifies and becomes a sharp tug.

Snape is pushing his fringe out of his eyes, and some of the hairs must have gotten caught in the screws of his glasses, Harry realises. Dumbfounded, he lifts his chin –

Only to have lean fingers pressed into his shoulders and hauling him up – to hear a snarl and – Harry doesn't believe it – there are fingers fisted savagely in his hair, pulling at the roots as though to exorcise something – cruel teeth suddenly biting his lips, snapping at his tongue, viciously sucking his mouth clean of rain and spit –

Squirming, delighted, Harry begins to kiss back, frantic teeth and tongue and ferocious, unlikely happiness. Whatever suddenly propelled Snape to change his mind, he doesn't care. This is probably about Lily. Could be about James. Revenge and other ugly things. Harry doesn't care. He wriggles forward until his body is nearly flush with Snape's chest of skin and bones, and thinks he discovers the mirror of own anger and misery and obsessiveness on the spikes of those ribs. He kisses Snape so that stinging tears fly to his eyes. His tongue has become the flayed and bitter stage where self-expression can take on its most brutally honest form. And Harry thinks he can feel the presence of his own monsters, and Snape's monsters as well; and he thinks he can devour them by gorging on Snape.

And Harry is so absorbed by the kiss that it is only after he finds himself coming in great, shuddering spurts, only after he has pulled away to try and remember how to inhale that he notices how _cold_ it is. Only then does he also notice how laboured and ragged Snape's breathing sounds, and realise that if he, Harry, is feeling a chill, then Snape . . .

In a horrible moment of self-condemnation, Harry scrambles awkwardly for his wand and casts Warming and Waterproofing Charms on them both. He doesn't need the sudden return of his sight to know that Snape's skin is a sick and clammy sort of pale or that his eyes are wasted, fevered, gleaming almost madly in the recesses of his skull.

A hand to Snape's forehead and he swears. "Fuck. You're burning up."

Snape runs trembling fingers through Harry's hair, feeling his way through the mess of tangles and gravity-defying tufts. His lips turn up in a crooked, languid smile that worries Harry because of the lack of self-concern he sees there. "Do not worry yourself."

Harry leans into the touch, but not without biting his lip. "I'm worried. As in really sort of frightened worried. Don't you see why?" Harry grimaces, knowing not to expect an answer. "God, I'll never forgive myself if you get sick." Overflowing with remorse now, Harry pulls back enough to cup Snape's jaw and gazes into his eyes. "I was too selfish – I wanted you so much, and I stopped thinking. I can understand if you think really, really ill of me right now."

Snape shakes his head once, hand still clenching at Harry's hair. His eyes burn as white as hydrogen stars, overly flammable and instable and indescribably warm in their unceasing scrutiny of Harry's face. Snape doesn't blink, and Harry wonders what he sees, and what he is afraid might disappear.

Harry can't help himself – he leans forward and brushes a kiss across numbed lips, then against Snape's closing, bristling eyes and the lashes lumped together by the rain. He strokes a pitted cheek as he pulls away. "We should get you inside." Snape's eyes snap open, something flickering in his gaze that hastens Harry to add, "And before you say something ridiculous about how this was all really a mistake and start pretending that we don't exist, I wanted to say that this was the best thing that ever happened to me in my life, and if you really do mean what you said about not ruining it –"

"I do."

His flow interrupted, Harry hesitates. "I won't let you push me away."

Snape blinks, then leans back against the wheelchair's drenched, ratty upholstery. His stare is unreadable.

Harry can tell that this is the most he's going to get. Snape will never make him any overt promises, he is almost sure.

"Hospital wing," says Harry brightly, but he does not immediately rise to his feet.

He can learn to live with Snape's contingency, he thinks, eyes warring with that unnerving stare. He can learn to live with being constantly unnerved by conflicting signals and ambivalent motivations and volatile incandescence. He thinks and suddenly remembers that Hermione had said, before heading off to Australia, something rather wise. You have to learn to accept the idea of your own future, she had said. Stop hiding from us, Harry, she had said. Don't be so afraid to look life in the face.

Could he really trust Snape not to go through with those nasty threats he'd made? Not at all, Harry decides. Then again, he isn't particularly worried. Harry can make just as good on his own threats not to let Snape get the better of him, can't he?

This will be, he thinks, something of a challenge.

Then again, Harry has already saved the world once.

He meets Snape's cool, unaffected gaze, and tries out a smile. And there – a flash of warmth not even Occlumency can hide. His smile widens.

This will be a cakewalk.


End file.
